by Terry McGhee
I looked up from some of my own notes and said, “I see there’s a forest road that runs not too far from Deadfall Lake, to the west, about a quarter mile from the main trail. This would be a lake access point for anyone coming in from the west, and the very popular Pacific Crest Trail runs right near the lake. In the summer, I bet the trail can get pretty crowded.” I volunteered that I had actually hiked to the area and was somewhat familiar with the terrain. Hannity did not seem impressed.
He swiveled the file so he could read some of the reports. “I recall that we did check with a couple of residents near this road. None had seen Wendy or Roy at the time. We also made a careful investigation of the common camping sites around the lake. Nothing of significance was found. What few pieces of old discarded camping equipment that were found were shown to Wendy’s parents. They did not recognize anything specifically. Photos of the pieces were also sent to Roy’s folks. They also drew a blank. We tried to get a list of trail users but were advised that very few log themselves in with the trail offices when planning a backpacking trip. Those that did were contacted. Unfortunately, we turned up no new information. “There are a few small, old remote cabins hidden deep in the forest around the lake. We checked out each one, but they seemed to be vacation homes. No one was home in any of them. Only one looked like someone might live there…at least in the summer months. I left my card with a note to call me. I never received any call.”
I flipped the file pages to a part of a report that documented the interview with Wendy’s parents. “I see you interviewed the parents. Did anything strike you as out of place? Was Wendy on good terms with her folks?”
Hannity rubbed his chin and stared up at the ceiling light fixture. “They seemed like normal people to me. Wendy’s mom did mention that her husband was pretty strict about Wendy’s comings and goings, but Wendy was quite responsible and never complained about any family rules as being too severe.”
I checked off another of my own notes written in the small spiral notebook. “How about Roy’s folks? Were they able to shed any light on the disappearance?”
The chin rubbing continued, and Hannity shoved his half-empty coffee cup to the end of the table. “I, and one other officer, talked to Roy’s mom and dad. They actually flew out here for a few days. Roy was pretty faithful in calling and writing his folks about his new life in California. They did mention that he had once talked about the possibility of him and Wendy getting married some day after college. His folks both confirmed that Roy was a good kid and had never caused them any trouble while he lived at home.”
Pondering Inspector Hannity’s comments, I jotted down key words to help me review our conversation. I stood up and extended my hand to inspector Hannity. “Thanks for your help. I have the contact information for both parents. Would you object to my talking to them?”
Hannity also stood. “Heck no, It’s OK by me. Just give them my phone number in case they wish to check with me.” His parting handshake was less intense than our initial greeting. I guessed he figured he had established his strength level with our initial handshake. For a moment, I thought about signing up with the local gym, but it sounded like too much physical work.
It was getting on toward lunch time so I stopped in town center at the local hamburger place. They advertised we serve free range beef…no chemicals or hormones in our hamburgers. I sat at a window table, ordered the “special” mountain burger, and pulled out my notes. Nothing I had entered into my note book pointed anywhere. Two normal kids with normal lives. No clues at all, but maybe the conversations with the parents would turn up something. What was I missing? The burger was fantastic, and I realized I had discovered a new place for us to have lunch. I told the young lady at the register how much I enjoyed the burger. I noted a pay phone in the far corner. I walked over and dropped a dime in the slot. A nostalgic moment for sure. I couldn't remember the last time I used a payphone. Barb picked up and I said, “It’s your husband, Sherlock, reporting in.”
“How’s the sleuthing going so far?”
“You’ll have a full report tonight, madam. Right now, they are serving my free-range, all-beef hamburger. I’ll take you to lunch here this week if you're nice to your detective husband. I will try to see the mother of the girl Wendy this afternoon. I’ll also telephone Roy’s parents back east.”
“Hold on detective. Is this your normal, noisy, dirty table and floor joint, or can I enjoy this burger in a quiet corner and a cloth napkin?”
“Hey Barb, it’s a hamburger joint bustling with teenagers, and mothers with bunches of little ones whining that their French fry order is too small. You’re gonna love it… Later," I said, hanging up. I didn’t want to give away too much info to Mrs. Sherlock just yet.
***
I pulled up in front of Wendy Johnson single-story house. It was an old wooden clapboard home with a large front porch, complete with a wooden swing for two. It looked like it had been begging for a fresh coat of paint for many years. I climbed out of my car and opened the creaky picket fence gate. I had taken no more than three steps up the cracked cement walkway, when a matronly woman opened the door and stood, wiping her hands on her apron. I explained my business and who I was. I handed her one of Inspector Hannity’s business cards. “The inspector said you should call him if you wish to.” I showed her my driver’s license with photo to reassure her that I was legit.
After a brief conversation on her porch, she invited me in for some chatting and herbal tea. She removed her apron and motioned for me to sit in an overstuffed chair. She then took the chair opposite. “I am still struggling to come to grips with what happened,” she told me. “I just can’t think of anything else I can say about the whole tragic event.”
– Chapter 2
Mrs Johnson asked me if I would like some tea. “Yes ma’am” I replied. “Tea sounds fine.” She stood and made her way to the kitchen, which was opposite and opened to the living room. There was an air of used comfort that filled this small house. An old furniture smell that was missing from our own new house. I decided I liked the musty smell of comfort. I thought about what it would be like to live alone. I decided that I would give our wooden furniture and new floors a coating of polish, or maybe Murphy’s Oil Soap…that should fix it.
I glanced into the small kitchen watching Mrs. Johnson. It just seemed so unfair that a person would have to go through life for such a long time never knowing what had happened to a loved one. I wondered how often she could smile…if ever now. I watched her fill the kettle and push the on button. The water started to heat up. She opened a tin on the counter next to the tea pot and took out two tea bags. She dropped one in each cup that had been taken down from the cupboard above the counter. She watched the old kettle as the water started to boil.
I used the opportunity to glance around the small but pleasant living room. Framed pictures of Wendy and some of both Wendy and her mom were standing on an end table, others on the stone mantel. Wendy’s father wasn’t in any of the pictures. The room itself looked lived in. An older color TV sat on a low two-drawer wooden cabinet. Someone had painted the small TV table a dark shade of antique red. A nice touch and it blended in well with the furnishings, but what did I know about decorating? A TV Guide lay open on the coffee table. Several shows for that day and evening had been circled in red ballpoint ink. She must spend a lot of time in front of the TV. I felt a little sadness. I promised myself to work my hardest to uncover any information that could shed any more light on this tragedy. Maybe that would give Mrs. Johnson some closure.
She managed a big smile as she entered the living room. “I hope you like jasmine tea. Sugar and milk are here on the tray as well.” She set the tray on the low, glass coffee table.
I lay my spiral notebook and pen on the table as I added sugar to my tea. “Thank you for the tea. I would just like to ask a few basic questions, so that I might get a better picture of the situation when Wendy and Roy disappeared.”
“Please ask whateve
r you like. I stopped crying, waiting, and hoping long ago for Wendy’s voice whenever the telephone rang.”
“I can well imagine how you feel,” I said and cleared my throat. “Inspector Hannity filled me in as best as he could. I also noted from the police report that Wendy was a good student and a responsible daughter. It also said that her relationship with you and her father appeared to be a normal one. No major incidents of trouble were noted. Is that accurate in your opinion?”
She was wringing her hands as she answered. “I would say that we were a normal family. Wendy never gave us any serious trouble. Just the normal ‘kid growing up’ things.”
I looked up from my note-taking. “I suppose one of the first things that might cross the mind of any parent, as well as the police, would be thinking that maybe Wendy ran away. Was there any traumatic emotional incident that she might have been experiencing at that time?” The runaway scenario was at the top of my list of possibilities.
“Of course we thought of that, but we could think of no reason she would. Besides, she took nothing with her when she left on the hiking trip with Roy. There were no extra clothes or toiletries missing. We checked. Her favorite books, records, and even her locked diary were on the bookshelf where she kept them. If she was running away, I cannot imagine she would leave behind the things that she loved.”
“I assume that you have read Wendy’s diary. Did you see anything that would indicate a situation that might give any clues to her disappearance?”
I detected the beginnings of a tear in Wendy’s mom’s eye. “No…it was just the normal stuff about her classes and friends. Her dad and I didn’t notice anything unusual in her life. I told the police all this. They didn’t seem interested in her diary. They took our word for what it contained. I have no problem letting you look at the diary. We also talked to a few of Wendy’s friends, and none of them could tell us if there were any problems in her life.”
“Thank you,” I said. “That could be helpful with my investigation. I have to make a phone call to Roy’s parents today. Can I take a rain-check on your offer about the diary?”
She nodded her consent, and I made a mental note to call her in the next few days. This, I thought, would be a waste of time, and a diary was just too private.
I paused to make more notes in my book. I pointed to the photographs. “Wendy was a very pretty young lady. I don’t see any photos of your husband.” I let the statement hang in the air.
“Oh, Ed hated to have his picture taken, and he avoided any photo taking situations. He always said he had some Native Indian blood in him, and a camera could snatch a piece of one’s soul—or some such nonsense like that.”
I decided to change the subject. “You obviously talked with Roy’s parents. Was there anything that might indicate there was a problem the kids were not sharing?”
She stood and began to pace. I swiveled my head and shifted a little on the couch to keep up with her movements. “We talked several times,” she said, “and they even flew out here to meet with us. They talked with the police, and of course, we talked a lot right here in this room. In the end, there were no surprises or new information that came out of our discussions.”
I made some more notations in my notebook about the seemingly abnormal, normal parent-child relationship. It just seemed like it would be normal to have a few points of disagreement between kids and their parents. Was something being covered up? I did an internal gasp as I briefly thought about a suicide pact between Wendy and Roy. It would be hard to believe a close parent would not be aware of their child’s situation of desperation if it existed. The next question could make or break the camaraderie we’d developed. “Was there any history of tension between Wendy and her father? It was noted in the police report that your husband, Ed, was a strict father. It also said that Wendy never openly rebelled against any of the household rules. Is that an accurate accounting of how you feel?”
Mrs. Johnson started wringing her hands again but quickly separated them and placed them palm down on the chair cushion. She looked away and up to the ceiling, as if she was pondering how she should answer. She took a deep breath and replied. “Wendy was an easy child, as I said before. Her father and I did impose a strict curfew. She seemed OK with this. Wendy was a neat person, so keeping her room neat and clean, as her father required, was easy for her.” Another tear appeared and Mrs. Johnson’s lips did a slight quiver as she undoubtedly was picturing their beautiful daughter moving around in her room. “Her father also asked her to let us meet any close friends she had. She brought many to our house over the years. Most were students, and many had part time jobs here in town. All of them seemed like well-adjusted kids.”
“Did you personally agree with all of the household requirements set by your husband and the rules he imposed for Wendy?”
She sighed deeply. “Well, I always thought Wendy should have more of a private personal life. Ed and I did disagree somewhat about this rule.”
I had one last question. “Did Wendy and her father ever do things together? You know like hiking, going to the movies, sports, and such? Were they alone together a lot?”
This question generated a slight frown from Mrs. Johnson. “Well, I did work full time when Wendy was younger. Ed’s job at the mill was an off and on proposition. He went through many temporary layoffs like most of the lumber workers in town. It was pretty bad when the lumber industry started to dry up in these parts. It worked out though, as Ed was a handy babysitter. We saved on the cost of a daytime sitter a lot of the time.”
I stood, folded up my notebook, and stuffed it in my coat pocket. I edged toward the front door. “You were very helpful, and I appreciate you going through all this questioning. I need to talk again to Inspector Hannity, just to compare notes. If you think of anything that might help, please call me. Here is my card with my mobile number. It has been such a long time with no news, that I just don’t see what else can be investigated. The last notes I reviewed in the police report were the missing person notices that were placed in the local papers, as well as the national newspapers.”
Mrs. Johnson walked with me. “We did get two reports from the national newspaper, but they turned out not to be anything about Wendy and Roy.”
I stood on the porch and shook her hand. “Could you make a list of Wendy’s friends, along with their phone numbers? I want to talk to any of them that are still around.” She nodded and said she’d have the list ready tomorrow.
I thanked her for the tea, waved a goodbye as I opened my car door, and slid behind the wheel. “OK, Mr. Investigator,” I whispered to myself, “it looks like you’ve struck out.” I hoped that conversations with some of Wendy’s old friends might turn up some clues. Folks that grew up in small towns tended to stay put in their adult life.
As I put the key in the ignition, I checked the rearview mirror and noticed an old pickup truck, painted with a gray primer, parked about a half block down the street. It hadn’t been there when I arrived. There was a guy in the driver’s seat with a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes, and he was definitely looking my way. He was wearing one of those black and red checked wool jackets that seemed to be common here in this mountain town. The ‘lumber jack’ look was popular. I looked again in the rear view mirror and noticed he’d started up the truck and was pulling out into the street. The truck drove past my jeep slowly, the driver giving a hard stare in my direction. His cap prevented me from really seeing any facial features. Was my imagination running wild? I thought of going back to ask Mrs. Johnson if she knew if the truck belonged to the house it had been parked next to.
I shook my head as if to rid my thoughts about a mysterious spy tailing me. I had never been on this street, and if the driver lived here, he might simply be checking out a stranger. Maybe even doing a casual check up on Mrs. Johnson to see if all was OK.
She must have been watching from her window, as my reverie was broken by her voice. She was standing on her porch. “Detective, is everything al
l right?”
“I noticed a gray old pickup truck parked at the third house down from yours. Have you noticed this truck here before?”
“I saw it drive by, but I have never seen it before. I’m pretty sure no one on this street owns it. Is something wrong?”
“Probably nothing, but the driver seemed to be paying close attention to me.”
“Call me if you have any more questions,” she said. She waived and went back inside her house. I sat for a minute or two and recapped my conversation with Wendy’s mother. Did the driver of the pickup truck play into this growing mystery?
A nagging question remained in my mind. Was it possible that Wendy’s father was abusive to his daughter? Tomorrow, I would pick up the list and start calling the people who knew Wendy.
Chapter 3
I definitely still have more questions than answers I thought as I pulled into our garage. I reached over my seat, lifted my jacket off the coat hook, and grabbed the groceries that Barb had asked me to pick up. I hit the remote to close the garage door and walked through the breezeway to our back deck.
Murphee heard me and padded to the edge of the deck, his tail wagging. I sat down cross-legged on the deck. Murph loved to snuggle his nose and head under my chin. I scratched his ears and planted a smooch on his head. He strolled back to his original position next to Barb. She looked up from the book she was reading and smiled. “Well, hello, Detective. Are you done for the day?”
“Yeah, I’m beat,” I replied. “I don’t think I am any closer to uncovering what might have happened to these kids, nor the reason or reasons they disappeared. I’ve made a list of key points with my conclusions based on info I have gathered so far. Take a listen and see if you have any ideas.
“Oh, there was something weird when I left the interview with Wendy’s mom. I thought there might be someone parked on her street that was checking me out. The driver in an old pickup truck was paying very close attention to me. I asked Mrs. Johnson about it, and she said it did not belong to anyone on her street, and she had never seen it before. I think my imagination is working overtime. I stupidly failed to get the license plate, but I’ll have Hannity put out a ‘BOLO.’ That’s police talk for be on the lookout.” I’m getting into this detective thing in a big way.
